How Came You By This?
by AJ Wesley
Summary: When the chance presents itself, Thorin seeks out Gandalf to learn how the wizard came into possession of Thrain's map and key-and what fate befell his father. Movie-verse with help from the Appendices.


**A/N: ** _This is my first Hobbit fic. I hope I did it justice. There are many others in my head that I hope to have written soon. Huge thanks to Thorny Hedge for the support and encouragement!_

**How Came You By This?**

**By AJ Wesley**

Balin gave him a wink and a pat on the arm before taking his leave, and Thorin allowed himself a small smile. No one else in the Company—aside from his nephews—would dare show him such familiarity. But Balin was more than just a loyal dwarf. He was friend, advisor, mentor, and the closest Thorin had to a father since his own had disappeared so long ago.

Now, as he watched the elder dwarf's retreat, Thorin's mind turned unbidden from the quest to his father. His grip tightened around the key still held firmly in his hand, as though he were afraid it would vanish yet again.

Gandalf had presented it to him without much explanation. Only that it had been entrusted to him by Thrain for safekeeping. The meeting had been neither the time nor the place to pursue his many questions, but now…

Thorin turned toward the front door. He knew Gandalf was outside. Not even in their chance encounter in Bree was any mention made of the heirlooms. It was entirely possible their meeting had not been unintended at all. Gandalf was a wizard, after all. Time to demand some answers.

**oooOOOooo**

Gandalf blew another ring of smoke into the cool spring breeze, watching it float across the darkened hills. Stars lit up the sky, and the joyous sound of laughter and song could be heard from the Green Dragon pub in the valley below. He loved this place. In all of Middle Earth, there was nowhere else he enjoyed spending his time greater than with the Hobbits of the Shire. He breathed a contented sigh. Bilbo would come around; he just needed some time.

Behind him, the door to Bag End opened and then closed, and there was the sound of boots on the flagstone path. Gandalf did not need to turn to know who his visitor was. He had known this moment would come. "Join me, Thorin," he said, his tone welcoming.

There was a pause, then the footfalls drew nearer as the dwarf lord descended the steps to the bench. Gandalf met his gaze then, saw how quickly the expression of unease was masked as Thorin lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, looking every bit the noble he was. But underneath all that was a pain and uncertainly he had borne for years.

"You have questions," Gandalf said, gesturing for the dwarf to sit.

Thorin did so, but remained silent.

Gandalf waited patiently; he knew it was not easy for the proud Thorin Oakenshield to reveal what he would consider weakness. The words would be chosen carefully.

Finally, Thorin spoke, but his gaze remained fixed on the darkness before them. "I have not seen my father in nearly a hundred years. Yet this evening, you give to me a key and a map that were entrusted to you by his very hand." Now he turned a steel gaze on the wizard. "Where is my father?"

A difficult question. It was never easy to give news of such loss. "I am sorry."

Thorin looked away, his gaze dropping to his hands which he clenched tightly.

"It was with his last breath that Thrain asked me to find you and give to you what was yours by right. He did not know your whereabouts, and it took me some time to find where you had settled. That is why you were on my mind when we met in Bree. I was on my way to see you."

"Why did you wait?" There was accusation in the dwarf's voice. "Why not give it to me then? In Bree?"

Here Gandalf needed to be cautious. As gently as he could, he replied, "It was not the right time."

"What gives you the right," Thorin spat, "to decide when I should receive what is rightfully mine?"

"Your anger is clouding your judgment, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin's gaze snapped toward him, eyes ablaze.

"You have been to Bree. It is a place that caters to all the races of Middle-earth. Local peoples, travelers, merchants. The Prancing Pony is a respite for some, and a wealth of knowledge for others. Ale loosens men's tongues. What better place for agents of evil to discover secrets that would not otherwise be shared?"

Thorin's gaze fell on the tavern below. He was silent for many minutes. Gandalf resumed smoking his pipe, content in the knowledge that the dwarf lord found sense in his words.

Finally, Thorin drew a deep breath. He let it go, his ire leaving with it. "You speak wisely, master wizard. I am sorry for doubting that wisdom." He looked back at Gandalf with sincerity.

Gandalf smiled. "So much like your father," he said.

The comment struck Thorin deeply. His mouth opened as if he wanted to reply, but could not find the words. He settled for a grateful nod. Then quietly, he asked, "How? How did my father meet his end?"

It was Gandalf's turn to draw a deep breath. Another difficult question to answer. Difficult because there were things happening in the world that Gandalf knew but could not yet prove. Things that he could not share with anyone yet. Thrain was captured because he carried what had been passed down to him as an heir of Durin. The key and the map had been disregarded as worthless possessions, for the real prize was worth so much more than all the riches of Erebor: a ring of power, forged by Sauron and given to Thror. There was no doubt in Gandalf's mind that if Thorin knew of such an heirloom, he would seek to reclaim it. He was far better off not knowing.

"Please," Thorin added, taking Gandalf's silence as though it were meant for his sake, "I must know."

"Your father was captured and tortured by Orcs. I know not all the reasons why, but I can guess."

"As can I." The anger was building again. "I can see that when my quest is complete, I will have another."

"Your father was very proud of you, Thorin. He knew you would be a great king. Vengeance is a double-edged sword. Do not seek it so hastily. Once you reclaim Erebor, your people will look to you for guidance. Do not let your anger consume you. You must focus on the task at hand. Your company follows you out of loyalty and love. They will need your leadership." With that he stood, laying a gentle hand on the dwarf's shoulder. After a moment, he stepped back inside, allowing Thorin his privacy to grieve.

**oooOOOooo**

The door clicked closed, leaving Thorin to himself, and for that, he was grateful. In his heart he had known that his father was dead, but finally hearing the truth made it no easier to bear. Moisture collected in his eyes, his vision clouding over. Alone in the dark, Thorin allowed himself to shed tears for his loss. Most of his family was gone; his brother, his grandfather, and his father, all taken from him before their time. His sister, Dís, understanding the responsibility of her family, had given her boys to Thorin's care, to apprentice, thus keeping the line of Durin secure. Thorin had raised them as sons, taught them the skills they would need to one day take back Erebor.

That day had arrived. Twelve honorable dwarves had answered his call, his nephews among them. They had placed their faith and their lives in Thorin's hands. He owed them his complete and utter devotion to the quest.

Bowing his head, Thorin took a moment to thank his ancestors and pray that they had welcomed Thrain into the Great Hall of Waiting. Then he drew himself up, inhaling deeply the fresh evening air, and stood.

Inside, Thorin found the place to be quiet and still. The loss of their burglar had lowered the spirits of the company. Most of them had gathered in the parlor, near the warmth of the fire. The scent of pipeweed filled the air, and it was welcoming. Thorin drew his pipe from his pocket as he stepped into the room. Balin sat in a chair near the fire, his eyes on the flames. Bofur had taken the Hobbit's footstool, his back to the fire so he could keep an eye on his cousin, Bifur, who looked as though he was asleep with his eyes open. Around the parlor table were Oin, Gloin, Dwalin, Dori, and Ori, the youngest of whom sat with his notebook open, recording the day's events. Nori had taken an interest in a map on the wall. No one spoke.

Fili and Kili were not in the room, nor was Bombur, who, Thorin suspected, was most likely picking over the larder.

Thorin's gaze settled on that of his oldest friend—the only one in the room who would meet his eyes. Dwalin offered a nod, which he returned before stepping up to the hearth and filling his pipe.

The silence hung heavy with uncertainty. Thorin could feel their gazes on him now that his back was to them. They were waiting for him to tell them all would be well. Waiting for guidance: _what do we do now_?

Thorin stared into the fire and softly began to hum. They would know the tune; the tale that had been put to song to carry through the ages. Balin joined him a moment later, then Dwalin, the brothers who had lived through it with him.

From the doorways the others came, drawn by the ballad. Fíli joined him at the hearth, Kíli stepping into the room a pace behind, never far from his brother.

And Thorin began to sing. He turned to the room, meeting each of their gazes in turn. One by one, they stood and drew nearer, uniting once again.

By the time the song had ended, most were on their feet. All of them looking to Thorin with pride, their spirits awakened. He smiled at them.

"Take your rest." He clapped a hand on Fíli's shoulder as the boy stepped up to his side. "We leave at first light. Tomorrow, our journey begins."

**End**


End file.
